Double Back (13 page)

Mac turned the corner of the warehouse to find Amir Sudarto leaning against the waiting LandCruiser, his black SIG Sauer aimed at Mac’s chest. As Mac slowly raised his hands, the driver pushed him in the back, making him stumble forwards.

‘Well,’ said Mac, seeing there were two soldiers beside Amir. ‘This’ll certainly be a secure ride.’

As the two soldiers closed in from his sides, Mac lurched to his right, grabbed the driver by the wrist and swung him into the other thug. Caught by surprise, the soldier pulled up his gun as Mac leapt over the driver and lunged at the soldier’s throat, grabbing it with his right hand as he got his left hand on the gun wrist.

Falling to the dirt, Mac twisted so he landed on the soldier then headbutted the bloke’s teeth. Using his momentum, he ripped his right hand away from the throat and got both hands on the soldier’s gun hand. Pulling up, Mac aimed the captured gun – hand and all – at Amir and pulled back on the soldier’s trigger finger as his assailants advanced.

Nothing. Not even a click.

Sudarto walked up and trod on Mac’s left wrist, preventing Mac from rolling away. Then Amir Sudarto’s gun came down between his eyes.

‘So,’ said Amir, smiling. ‘They say you were in army, but don’t know what safety is, right?’

The driver laughed, but the other soldier on the ground touched his bloody bottom lip and spat at Mac.

Amir’s smile suddenly hardened. ‘Time for chat, right, McQueen?’

They dragged Mac through the shower block of the Ginasio, into a dank room with a concrete floor and high frosted windows with wire through the glass. The Kopassus thugs made him kneel at one end of the room, hands and ankles wired behind him and wire flex around his neck. Then they walked away, leaving Mac with his fears.

Mac’s old footballer’s knees started to seize on the wet concrete as the blood dried in his nose. Forcing himself to keep his breathing regular, he worked it through: Amir Sudarto knew his name, which meant they’d levered the truth out of Bongo or got a surveillance shot of Mac and run it past some corrupt friendlies, most likely CIA or NICA. Or perhaps Amir was sent to do the dirty work by his big brother, Benni. There was a chance that Benni Sudarto was running a separate operation with a different agenda to that of Damajat and his commercial masters. Mac had no idea what it was, but the fact that Amir had grabbed Mac in the car park – not in the Lombok AgriCorp building – suggested a side venture.

Mac tried to think quickly about what Amir wanted and how far he’d go to get it. The Indonesians had already retrieved his phones and the materials that Damajat had given him, but the leaked documents from Rahmid Ali were hidden in Bongo’s Camry.

Sounds of beatings and pleading echoed throughout the vast building. People cried, men yelled; women screamed, voices threatened and hard objects hit soft flesh. Mac didn’t expect to walk out of the Ginasio.

Voices came closer and then there were footfalls in the shower block and Amir Sudarto was standing in front of Mac. One of the soldiers from the car park – the driver – put a shallow box on the wooden slat seat. Mac could see his own phone, Damajat’s Nokia and the list of items to be procured.

Sitting down on the slatted seat in front of Mac, Sudarto stretched his thick legs in front of him, taking his weight with his arms, muscles flexing under his green trop shirt.

‘Tell me what I need, McQueen, and I’ll make it fast and… relatively painless, okay?’

‘Can we define relatively?’ said Mac, the wire flex digging into his larynx.

‘Don’t be funny,’ said Sudarto, the trace of an American accent a reminder of his stint at Northwestern. ‘We’re in this situation, right? But we’re both soldiers, and I’ll give you the fast way if you cooperate.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but it sounds too much like suicide, maybe euthanasia. And I’m Catholic – see what I mean?’

Sudarto’s nostrils flared and he looked away.

‘What brought you up here?’ asked Sudarto.

‘Major-General asked me for lunch, remember?’

‘What were you looking for in his office?’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘So what’s this?’ said Sudarto, reaching over and picking up Damajat’s Nokia.

‘It rang,’ said Mac, shrugging and stalling for time.

Sudarto bounced his thumb across the keypad of the phone. ‘No it didn’t. Last received call 11.39 this morning.’

Looking down at Sudarto’s black Hi-Tec boots, Mac concentrated on his breathing and remained silent, stony-faced.

‘Major-General Damajat keeps his phone in his desk, so what were you looking for?’

Mac shrugged it off again, trying to find a part of himself that wasn’t swamped with fear.

‘What about Dili?’ asked Sudarto, pulling a cigarette packet from his breast pocket and fishing one out with his teeth. ‘What’s happening in Dili?’

‘Looking for sandalwood opportunities, and -’

‘Come on, McQueen,’ snapped Sudarto. ‘We’re past all that.’

The accepted style of interrogation in the intelligence community was to ask a number of narrative and factual questions over and over, find the inconsistencies and work at them. While working at the inconsistencies you suddenly dropped a clanger into the dialogue to surprise and confuse the interviewee. Mac expected a clanger in the next few minutes to try and knock him off his game.

‘Do you know a man called Alphonse Morales?’

‘No,’ said Mac.

‘Known to most people as Bongo?’

‘I may have met him, I don’t -’

Sudarto gestured to his sidekick and a black-and-white eight-by-five print was suddenly thrust in front of Mac’s face. It was a telephoto shot of Bongo at the wheel of the Camry, with Mac shutting the passenger door. Mac’s mind completed the picture – it had been taken just before he’d crossed the road to the wall of the Santa Cruz cemetery.

‘Oh, you’re talking about Manny? Manny Alvarez?’ said Mac, using Bongo’s NICA cover at the Jakarta Shangri-La.

‘Don’t be clever, McQueen,’ snapped Sudarto, lunging forwards and backhanding Mac across the face so hard that it sent him sprawling sideways.

The sidekick picked him up, put him back in the kneeling position, blood again pouring from Mac’s nose onto the concrete.

‘I met Manny when he was a concierge at the Lar,’ continued Mac, ‘and he agreed to do some driving for me in Timor.’

Lunging forwards again, Sudarto hit Mac with a backhand-forehand combo, spraying blood across the room. Although he stayed upright this time, Mac wondered how many of the heavy strikes he could take.

He was in big trouble: the Bongo connection put the conversation right back in the meet that had gone wrong, where the older Sudarto brother had shot Bongo. It meant the Sudartos had connected all the dots – the Canadian, Blackbird and Operasi Boa – which had led him to Mac. But was there anything else? What else did he know? What more could Amir Sudarto want from him that he didn’t know already?

‘Let’s talk about the cemetery,’ said Sudarto, sucking on his smoke.

‘The cemetery?’

‘Yeah, McQueen. Santa Cruz.’

‘It’s a nice place.’

‘Nice?’ said Sudarto.

‘Yeah – it’s a pretty place,’ said Mac.

‘Sure, it’s pretty, McQueen,’ said Sudarto, looking straight through him. ‘But maybe you meet someone there?’

Oh fuck! thought Mac, since Amir could only be referring to Rahmid Ali and his approach in the cemetery.

Trying to control the adrenaline that hammered in his temples, Mac realised his position was much worse than he had first thought. Benni and Amir Sudarto, and Kopassus intelligence, had discovered Mac in Dili because they’d been tailing Ali. They’d been tailing Ali because he represented the new President Habibie, whom the military wanted to hobble before democracy could break out.

Mac’s pain and fear deepened as he suddenly saw his predicament: he’d gone and put himself in the middle of a turf war between the Indonesian military and their president.

The beating continued until blood ran from Mac’s face and his left inner ear throbbed.

‘I told you,’ shouted Mac through mashed lips. ‘He collared me in the cemetery while I was checking on the radio transmitter. You don’t have a telephoto of this?’

‘Tell me again, McQueen,’ said Sudarto. ‘Start from the beginning.’

‘He called himself Rahmid Ali, he walked me at gunpoint into the trees against the wall of the graveyard and interrogated me about being in Dili.’

‘Say where he from?’

‘No – I assumed BAKIN,’ lied Mac. ‘He kept on about a company called Ocean Light in Dubai and what he called the “Singapore transactions”. I told you this!’

‘Singapore transactions?’ sneered Sudarto, losing control and not happy about it. Good interrogators had their theories confirmed; they weren’t necessarily wanting new information.

‘Yeah, Amir – that’s what he kept pushing me on. I had a SIG in my face, and it was all about these Singapore transactions and Ocean Light, and -’

‘What else, McQueen?’

‘That’s it. He was angry, kept demanding why Canberra would send a Treasury investigator to Dili.’

‘You Treasury?’

‘No, mate – and I have nothing to do with this IMF shit, okay?’ said Mac, referring to the International Monetary Fund consultants helping Indonesia with the Monekris, who’d been making unpopular demands about corruption and collusion under the cover of IMF policies.

‘So?’

‘So, I didn’t get to hear the end of his story because Bongo sorted it,’ said Mac.

‘Bongo?’

‘Yeah, he, you know…’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Sudarto.

There were sounds from outside and Amir and his sidekick exchanged glances.

‘We’ll get to the bottom of that one when Benni gets here, right?’ said Amir, glancing at his watch.

‘Benni?’ said Mac, trying to keep his neck straight so the wire didn’t dig into his Adam’s apple.

‘Yeah, McQueen, he wants to talk to you.’

Lighting a cigarette, Sudarto cocked his head to another sound outside the building and shot a look at the other spook, who left the room to investigate.

‘There’s a blonde girl, McQueen,’ said Sudarto. ‘Pretty. She your girlfriend?’

Mac smiled, his back now in spasm from his awkward kneeling position. ‘No, she’s looking for her father.’

‘Father?’ said Sudarto, facetious. ‘Can’t go losing your father.’

‘She suspects foul play – she’s in Timor to find him.’

‘She registered at the Turismo as Yarrow,’ said Sudarto, narrowing his eyes at Mac. ‘Her passport’s Canadian, address in Los Angeles.’

‘She’s at UCLA,’ said Mac.

‘Good cover, eh McQueen?’

‘Look, Amir,’ said Mac, trying to sound forceful, ‘she’s not in our world, okay?’

‘No?’

‘She’s a girl scout, a civvie whose father dropped off the map a few weeks ago and she can’t get answers from the Canadian or Indonesian governments.’

‘Why doesn’t she ask the Aussies?’ said Sudarto, smiling now, enjoying himself.

‘Mate, whack me for the Canadian, okay? It’s over, you win the back nine – whatever. But, shit!’

‘So she just good friend with Bongo, too?’

‘Bongo’s with me, bodyguarding – he’s freelance these days, right?’ said Mac, trying to breathe out his pain.

‘Really?’ said Sudarto, picking up the envelope with the photos. ‘So all these people, from Australia, United States and Philippines – they just meet at Turismo and all these coincidence happen, right?’

‘Amir, I’ve asked that girl three or four times to leave the island, swear to God, and I told her not to go into the mountains. I found her at a cafe in Aileu – she’d hitched a ride with the UN for fuck’s sake!’

‘She got mind of her own?’

‘Knows everything there is to know,’ said Mac.

Pulling another eight-by-five black-and-white from the envelope, Sudarto glanced at it and then held it in front of Mac’s bleeding face.

‘Taken four days ago – Denpasar,’ said Sudarto, exhaling smoke.

Mac’s heart sank as he looked at it: a telephoto shot of Jessica Yarrow, dark sunglasses and a white polo shirt, talking with a man under a Bintang umbrella at an outdoor cafe. Mac knew how to cover his feelings and use a poker face, but his mouth must have gaped.

‘Looks like it’ll be a fun night with Benni, eh McQueen?’ chuckled Sudarto, sliding the photo back in the envelope. ‘So much to catch up on.’

Mac tried to make the pieces fit. Mac knew the man in the photo as ‘Jim’, and although he didn’t know his surname he certainly knew his employer: Defense Intelligence Agency, the Western world’s most powerful spy network.

Sudarto was right. This would be an all-nighter.

The explosion came at what Mac reckoned was 6.30 pm. The blast shook the walls and a flash of brightness came through the high windows. As Mac tried to get his head around to see what was happening, Sudarto lashed out with his foot and caught Mac on the corner of his left jaw, increasing his agony.

‘You move when I tell you to move,’ snapped the big Indonesian, a new tone in his voice. The sidekick hadn’t returned from his errand and Mac had noticed Sudarto taking a couple of furtive glances at his wristwatch.

A dull glow filled the room and they heard panicked voices from outside as tendrils of smoke started coming in under the fanlights. Standing, Sudarto whipped a Nokia from his pocket and hit a speed dial before snarling at the machine. Wherever he was, the sidekick wasn’t answering his phone.

‘Guess we pick this up later, okay, McQueen?’ said Sudarto.

‘What?’ said Mac. ‘And leave me to burn?’

‘Said you didn’t want the fast way, yeah?’ said the Indonesian, the orange of the flames reflecting on his slab-sided face. ‘But Catholics make you a saint if you burn, right?’

‘Fuck you, Amir,’ said Mac, struggling as more smoke trickled into the room. ‘And that’s a martyr, not a saint.’

As Sudarto picked up the tray with the phones and photos, there was a new sound of automatic gunfire. Freezing, Sudarto dropped the tray and, pulling his SIG Sauer from his hip rig, ran out of the room.

Mac struggled with the flex holding his wrists down onto his ankles, but couldn’t budge it. They’d crossed his wrists and tied them down to his ankles by lashing the cross-brace created by his hands. It was a professional job, and with the flex also holding his head back by the throat, he couldn’t make any headway.

Mac attempted to calm himself, knowing it was easier to get out of a bound position if you were relaxed. But he just couldn’t do it: the gunfire continued, occasionally splattering across the concrete of the Ginasio and shattering the glass at the top of the wall. Not even able to duck as the glass showered around him, Mac struggled to keep breathing, the smoke growing thicker and the roar of flame now audible over the sounds of gunfire. He suspected Falintil guerrillas on a raiding party had torched either a couple of trucks or a fuel depot, and then opened fire when the soldiers came out of their chow tent to fight the fire.

The fire got louder and brighter and the smoke became oily, choking Mac as the room filled with floating gasoline soot.

Coughing, tears pouring down his face, Mac resigned himself to death and found himself thinking about the events that had brought him to this point: the decision years ago to take a UQ campus interview with what he thought was DFAT; the way they’d whisked him into the Royal Marines to undergo Commando training, which he’d pushed so far that he’d ended up doing the SBS survival course in Brunei; the stress of his job, the lying and pretending, the cajoling of people into betraying their employers and their governments; the lack of real relationships and the loneliness that went with it. He thought about the night at the Republica guest house in Suai and a beautiful girl who was so sad for her father. Mac knew Jessica had slept with him because he cheered her up, not because he was in her league.

And he thought about turning around in the car to face a girl who wanted to help some victimised women, and telling her to be ashamed and alive, realising in his heart how totally inadequate that philosophy was.

As the smoke entered his lungs, Mac sagged forward, tightening the flex on his throat. It was over, he was sliding into black. If he could do it all again, he’d tell Bongo to stop the car, put a gun in that militiaman’s mouth and let Jessica poke the bully in the chest, let her tell that cocksucker to hand the dammed chicken back to the old woman. Now! Drop his professional hardness for thirty seconds, and let the good guys win one back. For once…

And then Mac was turning, pleading… Sorry, Bongo. Shit, I’m sorry. Mac felt himself crying. Tell her I’m sorry, Bongo, fuck I’m sorry…

He must have slipped into pre-death unconsciousness before a large hand slapped at him, and he awoke in the heat of the dark room, spluttering and disoriented.

‘You okay to move, brother?’ came a voice as his wrist and ankle flexes were snipped. Then there was the feel of steel against his neck and a snipping sound and the flex came loose and, next thing, Mac was on his side on the wet concrete, coughing and vomiting, his stomach and lungs heaving.

Strong arms helped him up and then a voice he knew well was in his ear as he staggered forward on creaky knees, groping for something to hold.

‘It’s Bongo, okay, brother? Can you hear me?’

‘Yep,’ rasped Mac, clinging to Bongo in the dark.

‘We’re outa here, brother,’ said the Filipino. ‘You okay to walk?’

‘Yep,’ nodded Mac, his stomach convulsing, his eyes feeling like they were on fire.

‘Okay to run?’ asked Bongo, as they moved out of the room and into the blackness.

‘Yep,’ said Mac.

‘Sure?’ asked Bongo as they entered the Ginasio’s main stadium and headed right for the exit.

‘Good as gold,’ Mac replied, clinging to Bongo’s shirt like he was holding on to life itself.